


Necromantic Secret

by Jade56



Series: The Diogenes Cult [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Bottom Mycroft, Class Differences, First Time, Light Bondage, M/M, Necromancy, Pining, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Souls, Top Greg, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: Inspector Gregory Lestrade investigates the mysterious Diogenes Club, which is much more than it appears to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the Victorian era, with a few references to ACD canon. (Published after The Abominable Bride but written before.)
> 
> Some of the supernatural aspects of this fic were inspired by many countless hours spent playing the video game Diablo II. You don't need to know anything about that game to follow along here.

The detective inspector should have perhaps felt more pride than he did for his accomplishment. Other members of the Yard had attempted to infiltrate this mysterious club, and none other than him had met with any success. In fact, Lestrade was the only one who had not been sent away by the doorman almost instantly. Even Inspector Gregson, Lestrade’s long-time rival from his days in the homicide division, had taken note of Lestrade’s achievement.

But it did not seem to Lestrade that his success was due to only his own talents. The other agents who had attempted the same job were not unskilled themselves. He owed it to the combination, he supposed, of both his training and his sheer luck that whoever had been responsible for detecting undercover policemen had been less observant than usual.

As his chief official responsibility was to investigate criminal groups, this was not the first time he had devised a facade in order to establish a relationship with a secretive institution. This particular specimen of institution, however, was by far the most peculiar Lestrade had ever encountered. Neither he nor any of his colleagues was even certain that any manner of crime originated from this club, but reports of strange activity, ranging from bizarre smells to possible sightings of human bones, merited a close inspection.

In general, the public did not suspect any nefarious doings of the Diogenes Club, though that might have been because they knew so little of the club to begin with. Anybody who had ever even discussed the club as an interesting curiosity was aware that one was not allowed to speak within the Diogenes walls, making membership all the more difficult to acquire as one could not inquire about it. There was a convoluted and difficult process for becoming a member, and those wishing for quiet could often find such a luxury in their own homes, so few bothered to approach the building in any material fashion.

Lestrade had chosen to befriend one of the gentlemen who frequented the club. In no obviously direct way, he effected an open-mindedness toward fraternities that allowed people of interests outside of those strictly condoned by society to cooperate towards whatever ends they might seek. This gentleman was not the most interesting sort, and indeed there were times during their conversations when Lestrade wondered if there were no intrigue to the Diogenes after all, but his time was rewarded when at last he was invited to meet the Diogenes members.

His new acquaintance accompanied him into the club, which had a finely furnished lounge. Gentlemen were quietly reading newspapers or books, comfortable in each other’s silence. Lestrade could not help but wonder what sort of activity might be orchestrated in the back rooms, hidden by this picture of serenity.

Lestrade was careful to say nothing. He did not meet the gaze of any of the curious club members who noticed the newcomer. Lestrade’s friend led him wordlessly to one of the back rooms—Lestrade was almost surprised when it was a simple meeting room, though he knew there were yet other rooms in this building that might hold shocking secrets—and bid Lestrade to wait for a short moment while he fetched one of his colleagues. The incognito detective obediently took a seat, until his acquaintance left. Then Lestrade was up and about, feeling around the room for a secret panel or hidden entrance. He could not move furniture, as it would take too long to replace if his acquaintance were to return, but he made swift work of examining inconsistencies in the walls and the surface under the large table.

Unfortunately, all he discovered was that this club kept its possessions in excellent condition. Once he heard approaching footsteps, he quickly returned to his seat, and was relaxing with one leg over the other when a different man entered the room, with no sign of Lestrade’s original acquaintance.

Tall, stately, and confident, with a commanding air that reminded Lestrade who had been waiting for whom, this new gentleman demanded all Lestrade’s attention. “Good evening, Mr. Barton.” To investigate this club, Gregory Lestrade had presented himself with a fictitious name. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.” The man crisply took a seat opposite of Lestrade. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade greeted.

Mycroft peered without inhibition at Lestrade, whose eyes were captured by the other man’s gaze. The slow folding of Mycroft’s hands on the table told of the authority of a powerful man. “My acquaintance tells me that you might be suitable for our little club. I will tell you plainly that I am here to ascertain the veracity of that judgment.”

“Oh? If it is truly so exclusive, then I am grateful to make it this far.”

Mycroft seemed amused. “You have possibly suspected that there is more to the Diogenes than simple leisurely reading in unobtrusive company. We are, in fact, something of a brotherhood. There is significantly more to our activity than what you observed in the lounge.”

Finally, Lestrade was getting somewhere! This seemingly innocent club might have some dark secrets after all. “What, then, does the Diogenes do?”

“You will know in good time, if you are a proper fit for our particular group. Though we are occasionally obliged to seek new members, our true nature is not, shall we say, an appropriate subject for public knowledge.”

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. “I understand. A good man knows the value of privacy.”

“I am pleased to hear you say so. Due to the sensitive nature of our club, some of our members would be greatly distressed if their confidence was violated. I do not mean to sound brutish, but there are consequences to those who betray the Diogenes.”

“I would do no such thing,” Lestrade declared, captivated by Mycroft’s dire tone. He sincerely hoped that the activities would be harmless and that it would not be necessary to reveal them to the public.

“Are you certain that you could keep your knowledge of what we do here confidential? While it remains to be seen how much you will learn, I will not waste my time if idle gossip is counted among your hobbies.”

“Frankly, sir, you have me interested now. This must be a very fascinating operation to require such caution. I would hate to betray any respectable people who merely pursue their own private interests, whatever those may be.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft stood, and waved for Lestrade to do the same. “If you would please stand still for a moment, Mr. Barton.” Coming closer, Mycroft pulled what appeared to be a simple strip of black cloth from within his coat. Lestrade had noticed that the other man was tall and imposing, but had not thought that Mycroft would be so intimidating when he was near. Mycroft looked down at him, and his eyes seemed to see into Lestrade as easily as before.

With a nervous swallow, the detective wondered if Mycroft had seen through the deception. “Mr. Holmes?”

“You may, at any time until we are finished, end this interview of sorts, and leave the Diogenes Club, expelling this visit from your memory.” As he spoke, Mycroft wrapped the black strip of cloth around Lestrade’s eyes, tying it behind the head. Astonished, Lestrade said nothing as he was effectively blinded. “I mean no harm, and intend only to lead you to a different room. I understand that such precautions are not to everyone’s taste, but if you oblige,” Mycroft murmured, “there is power in it for you.”

“I’m interested,” Lestrade assured him, though the promise of power meant little to him. He was anxious to see what crimes the club might be involved in, or at the very least, to know what it was that gave Mycroft such authority, that allowed this man to dominate a veteran detective inspector such as he with naught but a formidable presence and calm hands. Even blindfolded, Lestrade would swear that he could feel the other man’s perceptive gaze upon him. He could certainly feel the gentle prodding of a palm against his back.

He was presumably led through the halls of the Diogenes Club, though at one time, when he and Mycroft stood still, it felt as if the ground moved, bringing them lower into the earth. It occurred to Lestrade that it had been foolish for him to look for something as conventional as a hidden lever under a table if this club was so capable as to install the great technology necessary for a lift.

After a few minutes of walking, the steady hand at Lestrade’s back guided him to sit down, on a cushion on the floor. Once he did so, the blindfold was removed.

“My word!” Lestrade exclaimed. He knew he was in a place of secrets, but this room spoke almost of a cult. Hieroglyphic images, like the runes of fabled magicians, were scrawled in a shining green all over the walls. A large, dark rug covered most of the floor, though Lestrade could see that the floor was stonework, and very old. There were no windows, only candles to illuminate the scene.

“Do the runes offend you?” Mycroft was taking his place on the cushion in front of Lestrade’s. He took to the cushion as effortlessly and gracefully as the most prim aristocrat did to a four-legged chair.

Lestrade self-consciously straightened his own posture, not wanting to seem too out of sorts. “Not at all. I was merely surprised.”

Mycroft gave him one of those piercing stares that stirred something very close to fear inside Lestrade. “I see,” Mycroft said, and Lestrade did not doubt that he could see everything. Had he finally seen who Lestrade really was, underneath his disguise? Fortunately, Mycroft’s hands were folding again in that calm way of his, indicating nothing of concern. Those folded hands provided for Lestrade something to look at other than an all-knowing gaze. “It is a shame that the occult should make you this nervous.”

Quickly, Lestrade shook his head. “No, sir.” He summoned the courage that often came with years of police service, finding additional strength in how near he was to finally discovering this institution’s purpose. Could the Diogenes Club be a front for some sort of… dark magic? It was possible that this was merely an intricate game for grown men with too few hobbies and too much time on their hands, and yet that did not explain the real power exuding from the man sitting across from him. Delving into his role as one of those self-interested men with more time than hobbies, Lestrade murmured, “If there’s power to be had here, I won’t back down.”

“Very good.” Mercifully, Mycroft’s gaze drifted away, as if the man had just been captured by an intriguing thought. “Power, indeed,” he said softly. There was an unmistakable glow to the man when his head was in the clouds, Lestrade saw. Or he had been too intimidated to look carefully at the man before—intimidated, really, was he not a detective inspector! But now he could study the man’s neat hair, so meticulously combed into place, and his firm lips which were pursed ever so slightly in whatever reverie Mycroft had been lost to.

It was then that Lestrade became aware that he had been thinking of this man by his first name, as if they were childhood friends. Lestrade had known nothing of this man before today. His last name was Holmes, was it not? But for some reason that Lestrade could not place, _Mycroft_ was more fitting.

Mycroft turned back to face him, and smiled. It was the warmest expression he had yet graced Lestrade with, and it was truly appreciated. “You are a patient man, Mr. Barton, or a stubborn one.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Well,” he said honestly, “I’ll admit I’ve been called one of those more often than the other, Mr. Holmes, and I’d rather not say which.”

To the detective’s surprise, Mycroft laughed. It was a short, polite chuckle, and startlingly adorable. “I think you will do well. In any case, let us get on with it. Close your eyes, if you please.”

He did so, but Lestrade could not help but recall that he had already worn a blindfold for several minutes. “If I must.”

“Some things are best understood in darkness. Now, imagine you are in the foulest place imaginable. Where are you?”

A very serious question. Was this some kind of thought experiment? Lestrade could not think of a clever fabrication, so he answered sincerely. “A graveyard.” As soon as the word left his mouth, Lestrade panicked, and almost forgot to keep his eyes closed. Mycroft would not like that answer! No group involved with dark arts would accept that answer!

“What has brought you to the graveyard?” Mycroft’s voice was steady and unperturbed.

Lestrade’s firsts clenched in his lap. “Another murder victim,” he said, too quickly. Then immediately, he mentally scolded himself again. How was he letting these things slip? He couldn’t hint that he was a member of the police. It was difficult to keep his thoughts in check over this matter, however. He had previously worked in the homicide division, and his failures from then lingered still.

“How does that make you feel?”

It would be a terrible idea to answer Mycroft’s question honestly. It would waste the months of planning that had gone into investigating the Diogenes Club. It would be the only way he found he could answer. “Terrible. I should’ve been able to do more.” Lestrade could not keep the fatal words from flowing out of himself. “I wish I could always see justice done.”

He was expecting Mycroft to question what exactly it was Lestrade did for a living, but instead, Mycroft continued the experiment. “Imagine that you are standing before the grave of one who long ago perished in such an unfortunate way. Suddenly, you see a vision of the past, of a soul rising through the dirt, above the grave, and beyond. The soul continues the cycle of its existence, to live better days once again.”

Lestrade smiled a little, awed by the image of such immortality.

“You see that the soul had journeyed to the country, to a comfortable home, and that it began its new life as a young boy, one free to roam outdoors and enjoy fresh air.”

That was a charming thought, since it was so close to Lestrade’s own childhood.

“This young boy would have been content to live quietly in the country, but his family wished for him to live in the city, where he soon found a place in the venerable Scotland Yard.”

That cut too close to home. Lestrade froze. He wouldn’t dare open his eyes now.

“You see him growing through the years, first eager as a young constable, then no less energetic but a touch more careful when he at last becomes a sergeant. By the time he became a detective inspector, he had seen much, perhaps too much. It was experience enough to guide his steps to this graveyard where you now stand, to ruminate on the tragedies of life as you do now.”

“I…?” It was madness to give himself away like this, but it was now unquestionable that Mycroft’s gaze truly had seen straight through Lestrade’s facade. The detective could not keep himself from taking the place of the imaginary man. In his own mind, he stepped back in shock. “I was buried here?”

Mycroft carried on with his neutral tone. “Do those old bones from a forgotten time still matter to you?”

“Well, no. I’m the one standing! I suppose that’s just a dead body in the ground. But I lived another life?”

“Keep that first thought with you, that you are the one standing. Now imagine that you hold your hand out in front of you. You feel power surge through you. You know that you could raise a warrior to fight at your side, an unthinking soldier made of bone.”

“I could raise this skeleton from the earth?” Lestrade murmured. A terrible, fascinating idea gripped him. “I could raise them all.”

“To what end?”

A fury Lestrade had not known was inside him was breaching the surface. “To strike down evil—to see justice done.” He could see it. An unholy army wielding the ancient weapons they were laid to rest with, their souls long departed, their bones left behind to avenge the fallen. If dark magic were real, he could turn it toward a meaningful purpose, and still return his soldiers to their proper resting places in the end.

“Ah.” Mycroft’s voice was lighter now. “We are finished. Return to the world of the living, I beg you.”

Lestrade blinked his eyes open. It was easy to readjust to the low lighting of the candles. Was this all a test? Had he been successful?

There was a satisfied gleam adding to the usual pride in Mycroft’s features. “You did very well, Detective Inspector.”

Oh, well that confirmed what Lestrade had already surmised! Somehow, Mycroft had discovered everything. “Detective Inspector?” Lestrade ought to at least try to salvage his facade.

“My colleague informed me that you are a lawyer and were verifiably familiar with law, but I have perceived that you have a far more active role in peacekeeping. Everything from the story you provided, to the way you carry yourself, to your impressive physical condition, told me that you are a policeman. I also reasoned that only a detective inspector would infiltrate a club such as this one. Further, there is a not unpleasant hint of the country in your voice.”

Lestrade was blushing, he was sure of it. How had Mycroft even gauged the detective inspector’s physical condition when he was wearing a suit? And Lestrade had thought that there was nothing left of the country in his accent. He’d wanted to sound more urbane than he once did. Did Mycroft think no less of him for his rural voice? Was it… not unpleasant to him?

“I admit that we study rituals of the occult here. Nothing on the order of raising an undead army, I grant you, but activities that would fall into that area nonetheless. Our purpose is largely the preservation of knowledge. We are not criminals. We do not deal in illicit substances, nor do we bring harm to anyone. Now that you are aware of this, you may have no more interest in us, and though you are bound to secrecy, you are free to leave.”

Surprised, Lestrade asked, “You are still inviting me to join?” He could hardly believe that a secret society would knowingly accept a policeman who had attempted to infiltrate it.

Mycroft’s sharp eyes softened just then, and though his shrewdness made Lestrade feel as vulnerable as before, he also felt oddly reassured. “We do no evil, Detective Inspector. We have nothing to fear from you. Someone of your line of work is, in fact, especially welcome. It is necessary to seek men of character who will keep the more ambitious of us in line. If you allow it, we may proceed with your initiation immediately.”

There was still so much Lestrade did not know about this strange club, or about this peculiar man. What he did know was that this imposing fellow was the most fascinating individual he had ever met. “I’ll stay,” he said. He still needed to be absolutely sure that this club was free of guilt, didn’t he?

Mycroft smiled, a sight Lestrade knew he could never tire of. “Then I will summon the other members down at once, and we can begin the rites. Just one more question before we begin, merely a formality.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Might I trouble you to share your real name?” This man was a quick one, indeed. “You’ll find that the members of the Diogenes are a discreet group. You need not bother with pseudonyms here.”

With his false identity shattered, Lestrade knew they could find out who he was. He did consider concealing his name for a moment, but the truth slipped out of him once again. “Gregory Lestrade.”

Mycroft nodded, and the solemn manner of it gave Lestrade the impression that he had just agreed to something of monumental importance. “If you would follow me, Mr. Lestrade.” As he clambered up from his cushion, struck by how effortlessly the other man did so, Lestrade also had the impression that he would be following Mycroft a great deal.

The initiation itself was a flurry of activity, each step more bizarre than the last. A number of individuals were introduced to him, some Lestrade had never heard of, but a few of greater public importance than the detective inspector. He was given a caster’s robe—a silky black affair with no marks—and bade to repeat a number of chants, some in English and others seemingly nonsensical.

When the last ritual was completed, an inexplicable green glow effused from Lestrade’s hands. Shocked, he turned to Mycroft, who admired the display as if it were entirely natural. It began to seem that there was more to this dark magic than superstition.

Joy filled him when Mycroft congratulated his use of dark magic. No matter how strange these activities might be, Lestrade would stay. He would make himself useful and persuade Mycroft to be his teacher. Lestrade could not fathom the reason for it, but a bit of disappointment settled in his stomach when the other man turned away, when Mycroft Holmes was not exacting the full power of his perceptive eyes upon the fascinated detective inspector.

~~

The first time Lestrade raised a skeleton, Mycroft appeared to be very pleased.

Many weeks of incantation exercises and instruction on basic lore had prepared the newest member of the Diogenes Club for this accomplishment. Of course the club was not where he spent most of his time, as he could not be remiss in his duties to Scotland Yard, but every free hour was devoted to training under the watchful guidance of Mycroft Holmes.

Despite his hours of training, Lestrade was nonetheless stunned by his own feat. Bones swirled through the air, sorting themselves into the shape of a humanoid skeleton. A skeleton who was holding a sword, which had not been lying with the bones a moment ago.

Lestrade had learned a few things from the other necromancers. They were all necromancers, he knew now, skilled in dark magic. He remembered to murmur his thanks to the soul long gone who allowed him to raise these bones now. Wide-eyed, he stared at the mindless skeleton magically standing before him, ready to be commanded.

“Very good,” Mycroft said. Like Lestrade, he was wearing a dark cloak over his regular clothes. Unlike Lestrade, who stood shaking before the unsettling warrior he had created, Mycroft relaxed in his plush red seat. Even in the secret lower levels of the Diogenes, it seemed that no expense was spared for the dramatic setting. “Now dismiss it.”

“It?” Lestrade wondered if that might be offensive somehow. The creature was obviously nothing more than animated bone, but it seemed strange to call any warrior an _it_ , even if the warrior had no eyes or expression of any kind.

“This is not a person, Mr. Lestrade. We can only raise bodies that have decomposed to bone, and by that time, the soul has moved on. Have I not made this clear?”

“How do you know the soul is gone?”

Mycroft smiled. “So you concede that souls exist?”

Lestrade was not sure about any of that, but Mycroft seemed rather confident. “I think that you must have good reason for thinking it is so.”

“I have not personally observed spirits, but skilled summoners have reported interactions with them. If you continue along this path, you could find out for yourself.”

“You are not a summoner, then?”

“My speciality is a different sort of necromancy.”

“But isn’t necromancy the raising of the dead?”

“Oh,” Mycroft sighed dramatically. “To have my own contributions to the art thrown aside.”

Horrified at himself, Lestrade added quickly, “I meant no insult!”

With a grin, Mycroft said, “Of course not. In truth, it doesn’t surprise me that you think so. Traipsing out into graveyards would create more public awareness than my own humble form of the magic.”

“What is your form, then?” Lestrade did not doubt that whatever magic Mycroft used, it was a powerful kind.

“I bestow curses,” Mycroft answered, and as if he did not notice the shock on Lestrade’s features, repeated calmly, “Now, if you would be so kind as to dismiss your summon. This is your first time, and while you seem to have a natural aptitude for command, I cannot say how long the being will remain under your control.”

“Uh, right, down with you,” Lestrade ordered to the skeleton, more briskly than he would have if he was not still struck by Mycroft’s admission. The skeleton collapsed into a heap of bones on the sturdy rug, and the sword disintegrated. It was a bizarre sight, but Lestrade was more concerned with his teacher. “You did say you… you curse others?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you think I’m going to be just fine with that?”

“Oh come now, Inspector,” Mycroft answered smoothly, “it’s nothing illegal. After all, the official stance of the law is that curses do not exist, if I’m not mistaken. I only concern myself with the interests of order, in any case.” He approached Lestrade now, lightly stepping over the bones on the ground with ease. “That is, of course, what motivates you as well.”

“O-of course,” Lestrade managed, fighting a thrilled shiver as Mycroft approached. It was foolish to be so affected by this gentleman. Surely he was just some posh bloke who had a unique hobby… a man in a dark robe who held power in a sect of necromancers… a sorcerer whose eyes glinted with interest, perhaps setting a curse even at this moment…

Mycroft looked down at him. “I think you have done enough for today.”

“Just one more thing, then,” Lestrade said hastily. “Who do you curse? Do you have enemies?”

“You must understand, my dear acolyte,” Mycroft said softly, his tone entrancing to the hapless detective inspector. “They are _your_ enemies as well.”

Lestrade was glad that the room was poorly lit, because with Mycroft standing this close, treating him with that smooth voice, Lestrade might have looked very nervous. “Oh? And who are they?”

“Vampires. Good day, Mr. Lestrade.” Mycroft gave his pupil an amused smile, and then strode away, leaving the detective inspector to stare in astonishment at his back.

~~

As he was preparing a magical spell, Lestrade wondered if he truly could be able to hold his own against creatures as evil and ancient as vampires.

That was assuming that there truly were vampires. Lestrade had become much less sceptical about the supernatural after holding the power of raising skeletons in his hands, but he had never beheld a vampire. He knew enough about them, though.

In one of their lore-focused sessions, Mycroft had instructed Lestrade on the threat that vampires posed. They corrupted the natural order of life and prowled on the unsuspecting. Of all the individuals who employed legendary powers—apparently, there were more than necromancers in this world—it was the necromancers who best understood the vampires.

“We let the paladins deal with the demons,” Mycroft had explained. “The druids can handle the werewolves. Of course, not all the clans have dedicated enemies, and there are those who simply isolate themselves completely. But the necromancers are the enemies of vampires.”

Raising bones from the ground was one thing. It was quite another to send those bones into battle against a gaunt, pale monster that fed on the life essence of its victims. Lestrade was far from certain that he could harness enough necromantic power for a fight, but the detective inspector was no coward. If he was able to, he would proudly protect the public from the secretive, evil creatures.

To become that protector, the next step was to master using all his concentration. Lestrade needed to raise multiple skeletons at the same time.

It was now late enough in the night to be early in the morning. A soft fog had settled, eerily illuminated by the lampposts along the street. Lestrade walked around the dark graveyard, testing the grass underneath his shoes, hoping that he would simply feel where just the right place was for him to stand and chant.

Mycroft waited patiently. He was sitting on a stone bench at the end of one row of graves. After learning about dangerous vampires, Lestrade could not understand how Mycroft could sit so at ease in a graveyard. Then he reasoned that if anyone could defeat an evil creature, it was his guide in the necromantic arts. A master of curses had no reason to be afraid.

And neither did Lestrade, the pupil reminded himself. The night held no threats for him when he was in Mycroft’s company. Although, he might have gathered the courage to cast his spell by now, if he could stop thinking self-consciously about Mycroft’s expectant gaze.

Lestrade steadied himself, and murmured arcane words as he wove a spell in the air.

He remembered all that Mycroft had told him and concentrated on raising his minions. It was not disconcerting that skeletal hands were reaching through the dirt, no, these were his soldiers who would battle evil creatures on his orders.

Infusing every syllable he spoke with all his command, Lestrade watched three skeleton warriors rise above their graves.

Lestrade faced his skeletons. “Right then. We’re going to keep the people safe, aren’t we?”

The skeletons thumped their swords to their chests in salute.

“Well done, Mr. Lestrade,” Mycroft said, standing up and walking closer to study each of the raised warriors. “You are a formidable necromancer.”

Lestrade beamed with pride.

“It is noble to tell them to protect others,” Mycroft continued. When he came close, he almost fleetingly touched the sleeve of Lestrade’s coat, as if contemplating it. “But can they protect _you_?”

After all their training sessions together, Lestrade still could not deny that bolt of joy he felt inside when Mycroft was this close. “I’m sure they can.”

Quietly, Mycroft said, “Make sure of it.”

Was Mycroft truly concerned with the wellbeing of his acolyte? Lestrade could handle himself. He was a policeman, after all. “You don’t need to worry about me. My little army can take on decrepit old vampires, and if I am in trouble, you can protect me too!” Lestrade saw a spark in Mycroft’s eyes and understood too late what he had said. It was foolish of him to expect that his instructor would continue to spend much of his time in Lestrade’s company. “Well, I mean, if you’re around.”

Mycroft graced him with a small, humble smile. Even in the dimness of early morning, he appeared grand, stately, and handsome.

As soon as Mycroft turned away to inspect the swords of the skeleton warriors, Lestrade took in a deep breath of fresh, crisp air. He hoped their training session would be over soon, and he would be able to clear his head elsewhere. The thoughts that were swirling in his mind were not tolerable ones.

A policemen being smitten with a gentleman would be very, very bad. Wishing to hold the leader of a necromantic cult in his arms would probably mean the detective inspector’s death, by the gentleman in question if not by the law. The law would merely strip him of his profession, his dignity, and his freedom.

Lestrade forced a smile when Mycroft praised the summoned weapons, trying not to look devastated when his instructor announced that their session was finished.

~~

Mycroft was certain that the dirt in this area of London was durable and dense enough for their purpose. Considering that he would need to know how to use whatever material was at hand, it was adequate for Lestrade to use in practising golem magic.

In addition to raising skeletons, a necromancer with expertise in summoning could learn to create golems, constructs with the properties of a chosen material. Lestrade now stood before his creation, a clay golem, a large hulk of a humanoid that stared vacantly back at its maker.

It was well into evening, and they were in an isolated alleyway, so nobody would find them using dark arts. Regardless, it felt very strange to be using magic in the open, rather than in the depths of the Diogenes Club or in a quiet graveyard.

Mycroft, in one of his impeccable suits, somehow untouched by dirt, stood confidently at Lestrade’s side, hands clasped behind his back. “You may wish to carry materials around with you from which you could summon a golem. An experienced summoner often keeps an iron item close at hand.”

“Not a bad idea,” Lestrade noted, appreciating every piece of advice his teacher gave him.

Lestrade had decided to be content being his teacher’s pupil, and, he hoped, his friend. Even if some unacceptable longings rose in his chest now and then, he could ignore them to satisfy his need to simply be around Mycroft. Even now, the taller man looked so interested in him, so proud of him, that Lestrade could not stay away. He could never break the trust that his teacher had placed in him in sharing the secrets of necromancy. He would respect Mycroft as well as the law.

If Lestrade was going to crawl into bed that night and dream about a handsome, elegant man who gently instructed him on matters that were even more scandalous than dark magic, then that was nobody’s business but his own.

Suddenly, noise from the street pulled Lestrade from his thoughts. He heard the voices of men, and saw their shadows flickering in the street. They were coming close to the alley. Lestrade rapidly whispered a dismissal at the golem, and without a thought pushed Mycroft against the shadows of the wall so that neither of them would be seen.

The first thing he registered after his instincts had played their part was Mycroft’s eyes gone wide, just inches from his face.

They were very close together. Lestrade’s hands at each side all but trapped the other man. Mycroft looked stunned.

Blushing terribly, Lestrade forgot to breathe as he held Mycroft and listened to the group of men pass harmlessly by their alley. He was distracted more by the way Mycroft bit his lip just inches away from his own mouth.

As soon as the strangers were gone, Lestrade pulled back quickly, mumbling clumsily, “I’m sorry, I, uh, they didn’t see us, so we’re fine, right?”

With characteristic grace despite the circumstances, Mycroft slowly rose, straightening his fine coat. It was dark, but Lestrade could see that his expression, which had been utterly shocked before, was blank now. “So we are, Mr. Lestrade.”

Lestrade’s shame was a palpable burden. “Yes, good.”

There was a moment when neither said anything. Lestrade was terribly nervous, afraid that he had somehow given away his feelings.

Mycroft was perfectly composed.

“You have been studying with me for a year,” he said. Had it been so long? Lestrade wasn’t sure. It did not seem that long. He didn’t see Mycroft as often as he would like, considering both of their busy schedules. “I’m impressed with how much you have learned in your time.”

“It’s all thanks to your instruction, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft tipped his head politely. “Find a suitable material for a golem, and bring it with you for our next training session.”

Immediately, Lestrade took to adjusting his schedule in his mind. He always did his best to make time for Mycroft.

His teacher’s presence was mesmerising to Lestrade. Thus, it was not until Lestrade was alone, turning his key in the door to his flat, that the detective inspector became aware of something odd. Mycroft had been guiding him through these lessons for a long time. Why hadn’t Lestrade yet battled a vampire, or even seen one?

~~

Throughout the year that Mycroft had guided the disciple’s training, Lestrade had never gone to the Diogenes Club unbidden. It was Mycroft who planned their sessions. He always made it clear, in their previous meeting or by a letter within a few days, where and when they would meet.

It had been two weeks and Lestrade had heard nothing.

As soon as he returned home from a long day of paperwork, he had asked the building’s footman to see if there had been any letters for him. There were none at all.

Lestrade was now reclining in the old but comfortable armchair in his flat, gazing at the beige wallpaper on his walls. The tables were of a sturdy dark wood and there were some nice photographs of his family on the fireplace mantel. His flat was fine, really. It had been nearly twenty years since he decided he wanted to be a copper, and he had done well enough that he could afford a habitable flat in London.

He wished he were in the Diogenes Club instead, walking up to the seat in the corner that Mycroft preferred. Mycroft would be seated there as usual, looking up from his newspaper and giving Lestrade an appraising glance even though the inspector had been so careful not to make a sound. Not a word was required for Mycroft to stand and lead Lestrade into the back rooms and down to secluded training grounds. Mycroft hardly needed spoken commands when Lestrade was more than eager to follow.

They were going to see each other again, weren’t they? Mycroft had told him so. To find material for a golem and bring it along next time, that was what he had said. But two weeks had passed, and Lestrade had received no instructions.

What if something had happened to Mr. Holmes?

Lestrade jolted upright, clutching his armrest automatically. He had not considered that before! Mycroft might have fallen in with some danger, perhaps, in the form of vampires? If Mycroft had only been wounded he might still have sent Lestrade a message. What if he had been hurt so badly that he could not send any message? What if he…?

On the verge of shaking, the inspector took a deep breath. He would know if someone had been killed in the past two weeks. Then Lestrade’s blood ran cold. Oh, no, he wouldn’t know. He didn’t really work on homicide cases anymore, did he? Not since he had requested a transfer. He worked organised crime now.

Lestrade glanced at his watch. It was five in the evening. There was still time to find out.

In seconds, Lestrade had his overcoat on and was leaving the flat, calling the first hansom he saw. “Pall Mall,” he told the driver. The driver gave him a dubious look, probably on account of a plainly-dressed commoner asking to be taken to the street occupied by private gentlemen’s clubs and prestigious foreign embassies. “ _Pall Mall_ ,” Lestrade ordered, drawing on the authority he used in his work, and at once the driver nodded, directing the horse away.

A hansom cab was small when shared, but lonely when alone. Lestrade sighed, wondering if the driver might have been right. Though he had made a life for himself as a detective inspector—and maybe the driver would have straightened a bit if he knew he was ferrying a copper—Lestrade was convinced that he was far beneath Mycroft.

Whatever it was the secretive necromancer did in the daytime, it was obvious that Mycroft was a gentleman. It was advertised clearly by the man’s impeccable clothes, and confirmed by his silky, luxurious voice that defined the sound of high class.

Lestrade swallowed hard, trying to calm the warmth he felt at the memory of that voice gently instructing him, telling him how to raise skeletons from the earth with the same dignified tone one would use to order a bespoke suit. Mycroft was refined in all things, and majestic in every moment. Angry with himself, the inspector forced his own resolution to the forefront of his mind. He had been clear with himself to rein in these inexcusable thoughts of the other man, though it was very difficult when Mycroft enchanted him more than anyone ever had.

In any case, he had no hope in that area. Mycroft was a respectable gentleman, who could not be touched by a common degenerate. It was clear that Mycroft came from an important, prosperous family, not from a farmhouse in the country.

In all likelihood, Lestrade would have spent his life on a farm if not for the boom of industry that was happening in England. More machinery meant that fewer people were needed in the fields, while more people were needed to run the machines in the city. Since he wasn’t needed in the fields, young Gregory had been sent away to ride the wave of migration. He got enough education to find good work, and soon he was taking an oath to protect the people of London.

He tried to walk with a brisk urban pace, to speak like a proud London man, but under it all, Lestrade was just a farm boy. And Mycroft had seen straight through him.

What right did a farm boy have to visit a sophisticated gentlemen’s club, anyway, especially one that held such mystery and magic that it secretly housed occult rooms dedicated to necromancy?

His ride slowed to a halt outside the grand classical architecture of the Diogenes Club. Lestrade climbed out of the hansom, regarding the building as if it were a different place now that he had not been summoned here. He had to be here, though, to know that Mycroft was all right. Lestrade paid the driver, not as well as he might have to a different chap, and entered the private establishment.

To the inspector’s surprise, the club’s well-dressed footman did not object to Lestrade walking in, nor did any of the gentlemen who reclined silently in their fashionable armchairs.

Nobody was sitting in the corner chair. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

Lestrade moved nearer to the corner anyway, and touched the seat. He looked around the room, trying to remember which of these men had been introduced to him on the night of his initiation. He hardly knew any of them, really. It was always Mycroft who taught him.

It did not matter. He was more than just a farm boy. He was a detective inspector, and he was going to find out the truth. He wrote down a question about where Mr. Holmes had gone to, and presented it to the footman, who had no choice other than to look at the inspector’s silently commanding hand.

The footman hesitated, but gave in to the inspector’s fixed look, and gestured for Lestrade to follow him into one of the back rooms on this floor, letting another of the club’s employees take over at the door. “Mr. Holmes is away on business,” the footman informed him.

Relief swept through Lestrade. Mycroft had not vanished after all. “Where’s he gone to? I’d like to contact him.”

The footman considered the question. “Mr. Holmes is rarely so forthcoming about his activities, sir. He never even tells anyone where he lives or where he works.”

That was hardly surprising. “Well, then, will he be back soon?”

“He has never been gone for longer than a month, sir.”

“All right. You’re sure he’ll come back to the club?”

“Mr. Holmes is here every evening when possible,” the footman said. “The gentleman keeps a very strict schedule. Like he was a clock himself, if I may say so. He is usually here from quarter to five to twenty to eight. Right on the minute.”

Surely the man was exaggerating, Lestrade thought. Though Mycroft had always been punctual regarding their sessions, no man could be so meticulous every day. Nonetheless, Lestrade nodded, and thanked the footman.

The next day, in the evening after he had closed the investigation of a smuggling ring, Lestrade packed his paperwork in his briefcase, went directly to the Diogenes Club, took the empty corner seat, and dipped his pen in his inkwell. If he was going to wait for Mycroft, he might as well make use of his time.

For the rest of the week, he sat in that corner. Quarter to five to twenty to eight. Unexpectedly, it got him ahead on his work, and on Thursday he leisurely read the newspaper, engrossed in the latest news, as much as he could be while a part of his mind lingered on the man whose seat he was occupying.

On Friday, Lestrade was in his borrowed seat two minutes early, and saw Mycroft enter the club two minutes later.

A few of the others glanced up with vague interest at Mycroft’s appearance, but none of them were astounded enough to put down their periodicals, and Mycroft ignored them anyway, only staring at the inspector who had taken his seat.

Mycroft came closer, and stood silently in front of Lestrade. Fortunately, he did not seem angry that Lestrade was using his seat. His clever eyes shined only with the brightness of curiosity. With a small smile, Mycroft tilted his head towards the back rooms, and at once Lestrade began packing up the papers he had laid out only a moment ago. Mycroft halted him with a calm hand, kindly grasping Lestrade’s arm and guiding him along. Behind them, one of the servants went to work cleaning up the inspector’s things.

In the meeting room with the long table, where Lestrade had first met his instructor so many months ago, Mycroft closed the door, giving them freedom to speak. “I must admit that I am surprised to find you here, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Where have you been? What happened?”

“I simply was away on business.”

“Oh, come off it!” Lestrade groused, provoking a startled rise of eyebrows from Mycroft. “I haven’t heard from you in three weeks! Can’t you tell me where you were?”

Mycroft paused, considering Lestrade with more gravity than before. “I did not think it would matter so much to you,” he said. “Considering the frequency of our sessions, I thought you might appreciate a respite from me.”

Lestrade could hardly believe Mycroft had thought such a thing. “I always enjoy our time together. After I hadn’t heard from you for so long… I was worried about you, Mr. Holmes,” he admitted.

“That is very kind of you to say,” Mycroft said sincerely, though his voice was light with a kind of surprise, or disbelief. “It was only a few weeks, was it not?”

The weeks had been long indeed. “You could have told me you’d be away. Where were you? Were you all right? You didn’t battle vampires, did you?”

“Fortunately not! I can tell you that I was called away by an emergency situation. I did not have time to alert anyone that I would be gone, and even if I did have time, there was little I could have said without being guilty of treason.”

“Treason?” Lestrade breathed. “What kind of work is it that you do?”

“I have a minor position in Her Majesty’s government.” Mycroft grinned. Lestrade decided he had been right; Mycroft was definitely of a higher class than the detective inspector. “I should add that my occupation is unrelated to my little necromantic hobby.”

“Of course,” the inspector said, though he did not entirely believe it.

“In any case, I am here now, as are you. Are you ready for your next training session?”

Any reason to spend more time with Mycroft was welcomed. “Gladly, but I’m afraid I didn’t bring anything to raise a golem with.”

“I’m sure there is something in your briefcase we can use. It should be in the summoning chamber, waiting for us.” Mycroft gestured toward the door. Lestrade knew his way through the Diogenes by now, or rather he knew how to reach the important rooms, yet he was more than happy to follow Mycroft anyway.

When they reached the odd lift-room, where Lestrade pulled the lowest knob on the control panel, he took a moment to marvel at the mechanism. He could see now that golems, the large constructs that they were, could never use the stairs. Why Mycroft insisted that they used the lift for only the two of them, though, was a mystery.

Almost sheepishly, Mycroft murmured next to him, “I enjoy the lift.” Lestrade should have known that his brilliant instructor could discern what he was thinking. He turned and saw that Mycroft was smiling, a little embarrassed.

That made Lestrade feel warm and soft inside, for reasons he would not look too closely into. “It’s not a problem. Much better than the set of steps in front of the Yard.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve often seen the ascent that you endure.”

Warily, Lestrade quipped, “Been to the police, have you?”

“I see the building frequently. It is near where I work.”

Lestrade clung onto that hint for a moment, until he noticed that it told him very little, because there were many government buildings in Whitehall, the street that also housed the police headquarters. But still, Mycroft had told him something, more than he had ever told anyone in this whole club, according to what the footman had said.

He had also mentioned to Lestrade that Mycroft told none of the other club members where he lived. Would Lestrade fare any better than them, if he tried? “It must be nice to have your work so close to the club,” Lestrade commented, as casually as possible. Whitehall was just a ten-minute walk around the corner. “I’ve certainly found it convenient. It makes me wish I lived closer to this part of London. I bet you often wish the same.”

For a moment, the other man said nothing. Lestrade regretted every word. Mycroft had seen through his ploy, of course he had! The man was a diplomat, or some other kind of politician. Certainly he knew every conversational trick better than Lestrade!

The doors opened, and Mycroft stepped forward, methodically, calmly pausing once to look at his watch.

“I live across the street from here, Mr. Lestrade,” Mycroft said, as if it were of no importance, and then continued on his way.

Yes! Mycroft did trust him after all! Lestrade hoped that this was a sign of Mycroft’s friendship. He had not been given as much information as a building or flat number, though that was not concerning, as Mycroft probably did not share that with even his own family, if he had any. It was incredibly heartening just to know the street where the man lived.

Although he was exuberantly pleased, Lestrade kept his manner civil as they entered the summoning chamber. “I didn’t know there were blocks of flats in this street.”

“There is only one, and not many flats within it. Ah, and here is your briefcase, Mr. Lestrade.” The briefcase was on the large, round altar in the middle of the dark room. Runes were inscribed in the walls, and the candles flickered with a strange blue glow over black rugs. Lestrade could have laughed at himself for how accustomed he had become to this strangeness.

If Lestrade wasn’t mistaken, the briefcase looked cleaner than when he had first brought it. He opened it up and found everything in order. “I wish I’d known I was going to see you today, Mr. Holmes. I’m afraid there isn’t much here to work with. There must be something in the club I can use?”

“You will have stronger concordance with the golem if it is made from something in your possession.”

Lestrade grunted, annoyed at his own belongings. The last thing he wanted was a soldier made out of his paperwork. “I commanded the dirt golem well enough.”

“Indeed you did.” There was something powerful in Mycroft’s velvety tone, causing pride to swell unwittingly in Lestrade’s chest. “A golem of your own materials would heed your every thought.”

“I could make one out of ink,” Lestrade jested, proffering the ink bottle from his briefcase.

Mycroft glanced approvingly. “Of course.”

“Really? I don’t know…” Lestrade would feel horrible if ink stained Mycroft’s perfect clothes, or any part of that perfect man, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so. “Won’t it get on the rugs?”

“They are black for a reason, Mr. Lestrade. You may be aware that skeletons do occasionally walk through here. Ink is of no concern. Now, the golem, if you are ready.”

Lestrade nodded, and moved his briefcase to the side, setting the ink bottle carefully on the dais. He thought about pouring the ink out, then decided only to uncap the bottle. First he prepared his incantation, and then he cast his spell.

A man of ink rose on the altar, the material of the bottle becoming sandals for its feet.

The golem had risen more quickly than the last one. This was getting easier, Lestrade noted.

“Well done,” Mycroft said. Lestrade smiled childishly at the praise. Fortunately, Mycroft did not notice Lestrade’s immature response. He inspected the golem, touching its wet arm with a hum of satisfaction.

Mycroft reached for one of the papers in Lestrade’s briefcase to wipe his finger off. Lestrade should have been offended by the man’s imperious manner, though all he truly wished was that Mycroft would make imperious use of more of his property. The desk in the inspector’s flat, his table, his bed…

Shaking his head, ordering those senseless thoughts away, Lestrade took to directing the ink golem around the room. He was in a very good mood—after all, his brilliant teacher had returned, and they were practising necromancy as they had previously—so he wanted the golem to jump around, and the construct did so, undulating in a fascinating way that only a being both solid and liquid was capable of.

Laughing in his cultured way, Mycroft was clearly entertained. Lestrade felt freer than he ever had before.

He experimented with a number of actions for the golem to perform, each one provoking an interested comment from his instructor. His friend.

Lestrade hoped that they were friends. That might excuse him for asking Mycroft to continue these sessions. At least, if the vampires were not a threat after all, which Lestrade was beginning to suspect.

“Mr. Holmes,” he asked thoughtfully, “why have I not seen a vampire yet?”

He had asked too late, it seemed, because Mycroft was checking his watch. “I’m afraid I must be going now.” Lestrade checked his own, and noted that it was only quarter past six. Mycroft had been away for some time, though, and probably had his own affairs to catch up on.

“I will see you again, right?” It bothered Lestrade only a little that he sounded needy to his own ears.

“Certainly. You have formidable control of summoning, but I think you might benefit from more instruction on the lore of our craft. Tomorrow I will be occupied until twenty to eight. Visit me after that time, if you are amenable.”

“Absolutely,” Lestrade answered, eager that he would see Mycroft again so soon.

Mycroft smiled at him, a vague see-you-then sort of smile, then left the summoning chamber. Lestrade was glad that he was trusted to find his way out alone in this majestic place.

Despite its beguiling runes and blue lights, the room became less majestic when Mycroft was gone. Lestrade appreciated that he had such an intriguing friend, squashing the stronger and less acceptable of his feelings down as he so often did. It was then that Lestrade noticed that Mycroft had not named where they would be meeting. Probably not the Diogenes Club, since Mycroft did not stay there past twenty to eight.

Lestrade was not worried. Mycroft would let him know.

While he was packing up his things, Lestrade spotted ink marks on one of the sheets. The paper that Mycroft had used to wipe his finger, Lestrade recalled, when the golem had first been raised. He also noticed that the ink marks made a number: _No.103_.

~~

Mycroft looked absolutely stunning when he answered the door for Lestrade. Granted, Lestrade was always stunned by the dignified gentleman, but Mycroft was truly dazzling. He wore a dark red waistcoat with a prominent pocket watch and fob, and he stood confidently in his grey tailcoat, and tasteful white cravat. Mycroft wore his fine suit with ease, stepping gracefully to allow his guest into his home.

“Make yourself comfortable, please,” Mycroft offered magnanimously.

Sheepishly, Lestrade nodded. He had a plain frock coat, an ordinary black bowler and a barely adequate necktie. He did not feel worthy of Mycroft’s presence, and as soon as he passed through the foyer, he knew he was right. Cushioned wingback chairs, curved cabriole legs and lustrous walnut surfaces decorated the luxurious suite of rooms. Clearly, this was a gentleman’s domain.

“May I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Lestrade mumbled, afraid to touch the fine glassware Mycroft undoubtedly kept in his cabinets. He gingerly sat down on one of the upholstered chairs.

“Allow me to take your hat, then.” Mycroft held out his hand. Lestrade surrendered his unimpressive bowler, almost wincing when it was placed next to Mycroft’s exquisite grey top hat on the rack.

Lestrade felt very awkward to be in the home of such a cultured man. Probably Mycroft would have changed into something less magnificent if he had not come from the Diogenes Club only a few minutes before. It seemed like such a waste to Lestrade, for this man to wear such elegance in a simple inspector’s company.

Mycroft sat in the other armchair, facing Lestrade. “I am glad that you came, Mr. Lestrade. It is rare that I have a guest in my rooms.”

Suddenly Lestrade felt much better about being there, knowing that he was welcome. And what a privilege it was, to be Mycroft’s rare guest. “I’m surprised to hear that. With rooms like these, you could have all the guests you want.”

Resting against the back of his chair, Mycroft regarded Lestrade thoughtfully. “I already do,” he observed.

Lestrade caught himself before he could gasp from astonishment. Instead, he calmed the happiness flaring in his chest by reminding himself that Mycroft was simply being courteous. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling, however. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Mycroft gave him a soft smile in return.

It was such a lovely expression that it was difficult to focus on anything else. “You, uh,” Lestrade tried, “you have some lore to teach me?”

“Indeed, yes. As I told you before, there are other practitioners of magic who keep mostly separate from us. While it is unlikely that you will ever interact with these individuals, you should still know about them if you are to continue our tradition.”

“Would they help us against vampires?”

Mycroft tilted his head in contemplation. “They might, for services in exchange. There is a chance, however, that they will be enemies. Take the druids, for instance. Their preferred enemy, the werewolves, were once druids themselves. They chose to be consumed by their magic and are now like savage beasts, sometimes driven to violence by their nature.”

There was temptation in all forms of power, Lestrade knew. “Does the same thing happen to necromancers?”

Surprisingly, the question stunned Mycroft. “Very good, Mr. Lestrade,” he murmured.

“Oh?” Lestrade swelled with pride at the hope that he had asked something clever.

“You’ve discovered where vampires come from.”

“Ah.” The meaning of that answer dawned on Lestrade. “Oh! Vampires were once necromancers?”

“Indeed.”

Lestrade shuddered to think that any person would choose such a fate. “That’s horrible. Who would become something like that?”

“Some are tempted by the abilities they would gain, though most are interested in immortality. Vampires do not die natural deaths. Their existence disrupts the natural order of life and death, which is paramount to a true necromancer. It is our duty to stop those who use our art with such impunity, particularly to protect those the vampires would prey on.”

Lestrade clenched his fist. He wanted to fight these dangerous creatures right now. “They feed on people, don’t they?”

Mycroft nodded. “Their form of immortality necessarily comes at a cost. Sometimes the victim never knows it. Vampires are able to confuse them so that nothing is clearly remembered. But the more vile of our enemies leave their victims dead.”

“What are we sitting around for? These monsters need to be hunted down!”

“My zealous inspector,” Mycroft said, amused. “Do relax. There has been no sign of vampire activity for many years.”

The fury drained out of Lestrade. “What?”

“The last known vampire was killed a long time ago. We have seen none of their kind since.”

Lestrade had believed that vampires were rare, since he had never encountered one in his year of training with Mycroft, but he had never imagined that there were none at all. “I don’t understand. There are no vampires?”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Then why have you been training me all this time? You don’t need me.”

“Quite the contrary,” Mycroft remarked, with more gravity than before. “Simply because we have not seen vampire activity does not mean they are all gone. We still need to be prepared.”

“But… There isn’t any present danger. You have people in the club who can help. I’m not,” Lestrade mumbled, “I’m not exactly young enough to lead the next generation of necromancers.”

With a subtly doleful look, Mycroft asked, “Has our time together been an unpleasant task for you?”

“No, certainly not!” Lestrade wanted to say more about how much this time meant to him, to show that he was happy to be Mycroft’s friend. However, he was afraid of giving away too much, and losing that friend. “It just seemed like there was a real emergency, don’t you think? You, the man in charge of the whole club, have taken so much time to teach me summoning, and you’re not even a summoner. You do curses, right? You even told me that you curse vampires.”

Mycroft smiled ruefully, with a note of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected the inspector to draw these conclusions. “I’m impressed, Mr. Lestrade.”

Lestrade understood now that there had to be some other reason for their training sessions. It horrified him to think that the suspicion that had first sent him investigating the Diogenes Club long ago might be correct after all, that something nefarious was underway. “What’s the reason for this? Why are you teaching me?”

Mycroft had been an intimidating figure when Lestrade first met him. He had easily directed Lestrade through the club, through that test of imagination and then through his rites. Yet now, there was no authority in the other man. He was as magnificent as ever, as he straightened his back and clasped his hands together, but the light in Mycroft’s eyes was not commanding in the least. It was open, vulnerable.

“I’m your friend, Mr. Holmes. You don’t have to hide anything from me.” With authority of his own, Lestrade leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“You had no interest in power for its own sake,” Mycroft whispered. “I thought at first that you were afraid of it. It was obvious that you are an experienced policeman. You used to investigate murders. Then why investigate strange institutions instead? The answer seemed apparent to me when you thought of a murder victim you could not save. There is much less chance for that kind of personal failure in your new division. I was sure you were afraid of power.

“Then I saw a change come over you. You thought of raising an army out of the bones under your feet. Suddenly you were alive with power. All for the sake of seeing justice done. You were never afraid of power. You simply did not know the power you had.”

Lestrade listened quietly, astounded by Mycroft’s perspective.

“I wanted to see you come alive again. Of course I did. Did you know that you have an aptitude for command, Mr. Lestrade? As someone who has practised it for years, I can see that it comes naturally to you. I knew you would make a superb summoner. Such a rare being,” Mycroft added softly. “Commanding, and kind.”

Lestrade didn’t know what to say. “Mr. Holmes…”

“I needed to be the one who showed you the power you had. To see you take command. Yes, I exaggerated the threat of vampires. I… I longed to keep you here, and I knew you would do anything to protect people from creatures lurking in the night.” Mycroft shyly glanced away. “Even if that meant spending an evening with me.”

Something in Lestrade ached to comfort the other man. “I’ve had a wonderful time with you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Enough of that, please.” Mycroft didn’t meet Lestrade’s gaze. “Won’t you… call me Mycroft?”

One of Lestrade’s deepest dreams had just been fulfilled. “Mycroft,” he murmured. It felt scandalous to say it out loud. If only Mycroft knew how treasured that name already was in Lestrade’s mind. “If you care to know—”

“Gregory. I remember,” Mycroft said. It was much more thrilling than it ought to be, to be named so familiarly by this gentleman. The way he said the name, _Gregory_ , respectfully and reverently, was incredible.

With their given names floating in the air between them, Lestrade wished he could be closer to Mycroft, who had taken to examining his own feet. Mycroft seemed so far away.

“I never thought a refined gentleman such as yourself,” Lestrade said, “would take any interest in me.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken. The only true gentleman in this room is you.”

Lestrade cracked a doubting smile. “I try to be polite when possible, I suppose, but you have to admit, I’m a very different sort of gentleman than you.”

At last, Mycroft looked up at him. “What sort of gentleman am I, then?”

“You have to ask? You’re the most sophisticated fellow I’ve ever met. Clever, and charming.”

“Gregory…” He could have sworn that Mycroft’s face was tinted an appealing red, but he might have been deluding himself into seeing what he wished to see. “If you knew why I wanted to be the one to teach you, you would not call me a gentleman.”

It tore at Lestrade’s spirit to see Mycroft this dejected. The issue seemed to be more than some nefarious crime at the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was ashamed. Why didn’t he think himself a gentleman? Could it be…? “I’d like to know why.”

“I shouldn’t…”

“Mycroft, please. Don’t hide anything from me.”

The gently given command was enough to make Mycroft pause. “If you insist,” he murmured. The power to give Mycroft any order was strange to Lestrade, and intoxicating. “You’re a handsome man, Gregory.”

The breath was knocked from Lestrade’s chest.

Mycroft squeezed his own hand, and Lestrade was captivated by the small display of shyness. “Handsome, and dependable, and… To think of you, using your talent for command, upon me…” His eyes shut tightly, and he sat stiffly, as if expecting a blow. “I’m sorry.”

Lestrade stood up, and moved closer to Mycroft’s seat, kneeling beside him. He gave in to the deep urge to touch the side of Mycroft’s face, to soothe the other man’s distress away.

Opening his eyes, Mycroft was still wary, his gaze fearful, but even so, he leaned into Lestrade’s touch, and—Lestrade’s heart skipped a beat—kissed the detective inspector’s palm.

“Mycroft…”

“Will you have me sent to prison?” Mycroft asked. There was no wrath in his voice, only a quiet, submissive quality. “You would never be able to, of course, but you’re welcome to try.”

“Why would I do that?” Absorbed in Mycroft’s sparkling eyes, Lestrade could hardly believe that there was anything unnatural about this. “Are you tempting me to commit a vulgar crime?”

Lestrade had not moved his hand away. Words were spoken quietly against that palm, which tingled from the intimate attention. “If only I could.”

Everything about this kind gentleman touched Lestrade’s soul, and aroused him in an unspeakable fashion. He raised his other hand and tenderly held Mycroft’s face. “I’d like to kiss you.”

“Oh, please,” Mycroft breathed.

Lestrade kissed his gentleman, deepening their kiss when he felt Mycroft become pliant against him and heard his soft whimpers. It was incredibly dangerous, and yet it felt safe to be here with Mycroft this way.

He longed for the two of them to do so many things together, but underneath the facade of arrogance Lestrade had seen before, Mycroft was a fragile soul. He pulled away, admiring the other man, who was breathing faster. The irresistible blush on Mycroft’s cheeks was more evident now.

Lestrade was smitten, and he could hide it no longer. “Would it be acceptable for a lowly copper to hug a man of class?”

“Oh, just come here,” Mycroft mumbled, and he pulled Lestrade fully into the seat. The taller man curled to rest against Lestrade’s chest.

Lestrade hugged him close. He had been very fortunate to have this kiss and embrace. Gently placing another kiss on Mycroft’s forehead, Lestrade spoke to the man in his arms. “I’ve wanted to tell you all this time how beautiful you are, Mycroft.”

“You’re a foolish man, Gregory,” Mycroft said, but he seemed happy, so Lestrade was happy, too.

Lestrade was content to hold Mycroft for a long time. He imagined spending the night with Mycroft, and though his fantasies were stirring, he knew that he would be satisfied merely to have an arm over Mycroft as they slept side by side.

~~

“Oh,” Mycroft gasped, his back arching up from the large, luxurious bed. “Yes, Gregory…”

“My God, that’s lovely,” Lestrade murmured in awe. He hadn’t dared to imagine that they would have made their way to Mycroft’s bed with such heat between them, that the gentleman would undress him and he would have been allowed to return the gesture. Mycroft was naked under him, rocking up into Lestrade’s two hands, which had been slicked with petroleum jelly.

“Oh!” Mycroft’s hands clutched the sheets, and his legs were trembling.

“Am I doing it the way you like?” Lestrade asked. Dazedly, Mycroft managed to nod. “Put your hands on mine.”

Mycroft obeyed. His grip was tight, but he did nothing to make Lestrade move faster or slower. He was still at Lestrade’s mercy.

“Do you like this, Mycroft?” Leaning down, filled with powerful feelings he could hardly name, Lestrade whispered into Mycroft’s ear. “Do you just want to lie back while I take care of everything?”

Mycroft moaned deeply. “Please, yes…”

“I’d love to do that for you. I can relieve you, just like this, and you don’t have to do anything. Oh, God, to have you spread out for me… Should I bring my handcuffs next time?”

It warmed him to hear more of those lovely moans and to feel Mycroft writhe under his hands and legs. The elegant gentleman was breathing hard, his head straining back on his pillow. “Gregory…”

Lestrade opened his hands up just for a moment, so that he could slide himself in.

Mycroft cried out at the sensation of them touching together. “Yes, oh…” Now that Lestrade was thrusting for him, Mycroft could let himself be taken along. He was the picture of bliss, and soon Lestrade could think of nothing but rocking together with his cherished teacher.

The man under him was groaning with pleasure, far more expressive than the contained man he had met at the club, though just as graceful and handsome. He wore no clothes, and yet was no less elegant than he had been in a suit. The joy of having this incredible man open to him was more than Lestrade could bear.

“Tell me…” Mycroft began breathlessly. Lestrade took a long push, sliding with Mycroft, and it showed in sparkling eyes.

Lestrade longed for Mycroft so much; he would do anything for him. “Yeah, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shyly cast that twinkling gaze of his to the ceiling, even as his body rocked under Lestrade’s guidance. “I can't…” His voice, overwhelmed by passion, was a lovely sound. “Until you tell me to…”

Suddenly Lestrade knew what Mycroft needed, and it sent another spike of lust and affection through him. “Come for me, Mycroft,” he implored, his voice low, and he squeezed his grip without slowing his movements.

Their end was spectacular, with Mycroft first and Lestrade not very far behind. Lestrade almost regretted that it was over so quickly, but considering how long he had pined for the other man, he knew he never had any hope of taking this time slowly. He thought of the future, of spending all day doing whatever most pleased his dear Mycroft.

Mycroft was sleepily curling up in the bed now, almost like a cat. Admiring his bedmate fondly, Lestrade went to clean up his hands in the pristine washroom, possibly taking too long to admire the way their scents mixed together. He wondered, was he being presumptuous, imagining their future together?

When he returned to the bed, Lestrade stroked Mycroft’s arm thoughtfully. The sweet man had fallen asleep. What they had done was madness, and somehow this simple, comfortable intimacy seemed to be even more improper, more criminal. It felt utterly scandalous to hold Mycroft and watch over him with a full, aching heart.

Mycroft was a gentleman, no matter what he said. Sooner rather than later, he would remember that he was destined for better things than a life with a simple detective inspector. A tendril of fear grasped at Lestrade then, when he thought about what Mycroft might think when he tired of him. Would Mycroft keep from leaving Lestrade out of fear of being arrested by the detective inspector?

Lestrade needed Mycroft to know how precious he was, how loyal Lestrade would remain even if Mycroft moved on to something better. He did not want to wake Mycroft, however, so Lestrade merely rested his head where Mycroft’s neck met his shoulder. This extravagant flat was more splendid than Lestrade deserved to sleep in, and, more importantly, this man far too majestic to sleep beside, but Lestrade would appreciate this closeness while he could.

~~

This morning was very pleasant. Lestrade awoke with the vitality that came with deep, restful sleep. His dreams, as they often were, must have been lovely ones of Mycroft, of the suave gentleman allowing the inspector into his bedroom, and his heart… but what was that strangely comfortable weight on Lestrade’s chest…?

He opened his eyes, and found himself in the bed that belonged in his dreams, in Mycroft’s home. What was even more spectacular was that the man himself was sleeping on him, Mycroft’s arm around Lestrade’s chest, his head resting on the inspector’s breast. Lestrade gently ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. He hardly believed that it was all real, that all the memories of last night flooding back to him had truly happened.

Mycroft was warm, his expression content in sleep.

He was also still naked, lying in the same bed as Lestrade, trusting himself completely to the stronger, older inspector, who was now experiencing a highly inconvenient, quickly growing desire. There were so many sinful things he wanted to do with Mycroft. Even so, the strongest longing of all was to kiss him good morning and confess the entirety of his love.

Lestrade grimaced. He always felt too much when it came to Mycroft. He began to lift Mycroft’s arm off himself.

“Hmm?” Mycroft mumbled. He glanced at where Lestrade was holding his arm, and then he looked up at the other man, vulnerability so clear in his expression that something in Lestrade melted. “Gregory?”

“I’m not leaving you,” Lestrade said softly. “I don’t mean to abandon you, but, I don’t think I should be in your bed right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Lestrade could not turn away from that that helpless, beautiful face. “Neither of us is wearing clothes, and, I…”

“Oh.” Mycroft pulled away, hiding himself with the blanket. “Of course. M-my apologies,” he stammered, his voice, normally so refined, suddenly small. “I see, we’re finished here. I should have woken earlier and let you have the bed to yourself.”

“No,” Lestrade said quickly, “that’s not what I meant. It’s just that… well…”

“It is all right,” Mycroft responded crisply, refusing to face Lestrade. “I’m only sorry you had to endure a night spent next to me.”

Lestrade’s hand bolted forward before he could think, grasping Mycroft’s wrist. “Please, don’t leave.”

Stunned, Mycroft turned back, though he was still hiding most of himself in the sheets. His eyes were wide, and he was too shocked to speak.

“I don’t regret any of this. I just… I don’t want to impose on you more than I have already.”

“Impose on me?” Mycroft inquired, his voice endearingly breathless.

“I wanted to kiss you good morning,” Lestrade admitted, “and maybe do some other things with you, too.”

“Like what?” As if entranced by something on Lestrade’s face, Mycroft came a little closer.

Caught in that timid but astute gaze, Lestrade was dazzled. He reached out and stroked lightly under Mycroft’s chin.

With that touch alone, Mycroft shuddered, breaking their eye contact. He lowered his head obediently. “I’m yours to command,” he murmured deeply. “In any way you wish. If it would please you.”

Lestrade gasped, remembering how he had been allowed to direct Mycroft last evening. He was astounded that such selfishness on his part could be something that Mycroft desired. “Well, if you don’t object to continuing what we started, would you lie back for me?”

Mycroft scrambled to do as Lestrade said, then the gentleman swallowed, nervous.

It was beautiful to behold the gentleness that Mycroft had hidden so well. “Good, very good, Mycroft.”

The other man whined meekly. His face was flushed with embarrassment.

Mycroft’s trust in him made the inspector want to dance around the room, though there was something he wanted to do more at that moment. Lestrade grasped Mycroft’s face again, told him in hushed tones, “hold still for me,” and leaned in closer, kissing him.

Whimpering, his eyes fluttering open and then closed, Mycroft parted his lips, allowing Lestrade to gratefully and happily kiss him more deeply.

After a long, satisfying moment, Lestrade pulled back, breathing more than before, and enjoying watching Mycroft do the same. He sat at Mycroft’s side, already caught in fantasies about what he was about to ask his refined, unimpeachable gentleman to do.

“Push the blanket away, Mycroft, please.”

Though he was a modest man, Mycroft obeyed at once.

“You’re gorgeous,” Lestrade told him, fomenting a sharp blush in Mycroft’s cheeks and in other parts of him. His breaths were shallow, his eyes dark; it was clear that Mycroft was in a desperate state, or at least it seemed that way to Lestrade. “Tell me how you’re feeling."

“I want to do anything you say,” Mycroft confessed. “I want to be closer to you.”

“Do you want me to touch you?” The words themselves were so tempting that Lestrade could hardly say them.

“Yes, but of course I will do whatever you say…”

Lestrade kissed Mycroft’s forehead. “Thank you for telling me. I’m so proud of you.” His love whimpered again. “I won’t make you wait much longer, sweetheart, I just want you to know that you’re safe with me.” Lestrade gave weight to every word, hoping that his brilliant Mycroft understood how sincere he was. “You can tell me anything.”

Mycroft looked at him with such amazement and wonder. “Would you believe me, if I told you how much I need you, Gregory?”

Lestrade smiled, awash with the glow that came with being the luckiest man in the world. The inspector moved down the bed, and with the easy affection he had felt all morning, took Mycroft into his mouth.

Mycroft gasped, a rough, dramatic sound that was music to Lestrade’s ears. “Oh! Gregory… Thank you…” His docile hands slipped lightly into the inspector’s hair.

The gratitude in Mycroft’s voice and the grace of his fingers twisted the affection in Lestrade into a wilder, hotter passion. He swallowed Mycroft more deeply, his rise and fall more urgent.

He felt Mycroft rock unthinkingly under him, felt the whole being of this bewitching gentleman. Just the sounds of his love caused heat to build in Lestrade’s body and heart. When he sucked in a manner that should have been vulgar and indecent and yet felt beautiful and right, Lestrade was rewarded hotly and intimately, with Mycroft’s release and his sweet whimpering cries.

Lestrade was very fortunate to be able to ease Mycroft through his bliss. It was such a provocative picture that Lestrade’s body thrummed with interest, yet it was far more important for him to comfort his beloved. He watched Mycroft’s soft breaths gratefully, reluctant to relinquish his hold of this incredible man, as long as this man would have him.

“My dear Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, “that was magnificent.”

Lestrade cuddled close to Mycroft. The feeling of desire left unsatisfied in himself was strong, but the contentment he felt sharing this intimate closeness with Mycroft was overwhelming.

“One wonders,” the gentleman continued politely, “if such a kindness will be allowed to be returned.” He lifted himself up on his elbow and looked down with a hungry gaze. Those clever eyes went back up to Lestrade’s, full of want and promise.

“One needn’t wonder,” Lestrade winked, charmed by the smirk he received in return.

It was becoming increasingly apparent that Mycroft was graceful in everything he did, especially when he rested on his arms with distinguished poise over Lestrade’s lower body, and then the inspector’s thoughts became much less coherent as his mind abruptly went white.

In his pleasure-filled daze, all he knew was Mycroft. He never wanted to leave him.

Fortunately, he found that Mycroft was in as little a hurry to leave the bed as the inspector was. Well, thank the Lord it was Sunday.

Later that same day, they went out to a fine establishment that was more suited to the gentleman in the grey top hat than to the plain inspector, though that fact did suit Lestrade, because he loved watching Mycroft in his element, directing others in his usual punctilious manner.

It seemed impossible that this man would bow to anyone, much less would ask to do so. Lestrade began to wonder if the unmentionable moments he had shared privately with this man had truly happened.

Then they went to the theatre—how Mycroft acquired reservations for luxurious seating so quickly, Lestrade had no idea—where the inspector made a very small request of the other man, without meaning to. All he asked was for the playbill.

Mycroft, who had been chatting amiably with him until then, stopped everything, fetched one and returned to Lestrade immediately.

It was a small thing, but a kind of eagerness had taken over Mycroft in that instant. His eyes twinkled at Lestrade. It was obvious that he was very happy to be relied upon.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, his voice lower than he intended. He felt both happy and guilty, knowing that his commands made Mycroft feel this way and also knowing very well his own perhaps-not-entirely-altruistic feelings, the ones that delighted in all forms of Mycroft’s pleasure. “That was very quick.”

As he sat down next to him, Mycroft glowed with pride from the plain compliment. “My pleasure.”

~~

In their next necromantic session, which felt nostalgically similar to all the other ones yet was different in that Lestrade could smile openly at his teacher, he asked to witness Mycroft’s powers.

He had never seen Mycroft cast a proper spell, but he knew that his love would demonstrate his art in spectacular fashion.

Mycroft seemed to disagree. “My abilities really are of little consequence. Curses require a fair amount of energy, and have a very short duration, rarely lasting as long as a minute. All I can bring upon others is weakness, confusion, or, if the situation requires it, a sense of terror.”

“Would you show me a spell?”

Dubious, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Would you have me afflict myself with a curse? I suppose I could demonstrate on your golem, if it is amenable.”

The clay golem, which Lestrade had raised in the beginning of their session, stood to their side, facing the dais in the middle of the summoning room behind them. It expressed nothing, not in words nor in countenance. It was wearing a meagre brown raiment that was essentially shorts under a skirt, which Lestrade thought a little embarrassing considering it was supposed to be a great warrior, but at least it showed that Lestrade was improving in the intricacies on his golem.

Lestrade shook his head. “I’d like to know what a curse feels like, if I could.”

Mycroft seemed quite surprised. “It sounds as if you are asking me to curse you.”

“Why not? It would be for less than a minute. It’s common for coppers, you know, to know how it feels to be hit with a baton or what have you. I ought to know how it feels to be cursed.”

Mycroft smiled. “You are a brave man, Gregory. Very well, I could never deny your wishes. But forgive me if I use one of the more innocuous spells.” He took a deep breath, and began his incantation. It sounded somewhat like the words Lestrade had learned, yet somehow more exacting.

Suddenly, light started to diminish around Lestrade, the walls of the summoning chamber fading into shadows. The darkness crept just slowly enough for him to see a pleased expression on Mycroft’s face, and then his teacher was enveloped, and soon the inspector could see nothing.

Though he had known that his perception would be changed in some fashion, it was still a shock to have one’s vision taken away. Lestrade turned left and right, instinctively and futilely fighting the shadows, searching for light. “Mycroft?”

“Now you see, so to speak,” Mycroft said with a smirk that Lestrade swore he could hear, “what a curse is.”

Lestrade struggled to make out any object. After a long moment of intense concentration, he could make out the barest silhouette of the large altar in the room. He turned all around, probably looking foolish to his teacher, though it was yet too dim for Lestrade to find a silhouette of a person. He thought he remembered where Mycroft was and reached there, but his hands met only air.

“Looking for something?” A posh voice murmured. Lestrade spun around and reached, with a grunt, toward where he thought he had heard the voice. Again, he touched nothing. “Oh, you’ll have to do better than that, Gregory.”

Lestrade wasn’t about to refuse from a challenge. He was aware that, despite his goading, Mycroft would probably kneel at his feet if Lestrade commanded him to—contemplating the power he held over this man almost made the inspector dizzy at times—but Lestrade had another idea. “Grab him and hold him.”

“Hm?” Mycroft hummed, confused by Lestrade’s words, which meant he did not yet see that the command was not meant for a sentient human. “Ah!” There was the sound of a scuffle, though it was short, so Lestrade was certain his golem had succeeded.

No, it wasn’t that; he _felt_ that his golem had succeeded. His ability to sense his summoned warriors was growing.

In any case, his feeling was assured when Mycroft chuckled. “Well, I asked for this, didn’t I?”

“That you did!” Lestrade could now make out Mycroft’s figure, though all he could see was a dark figure whose arm was held by a larger entity. “All right, let him go.”

The golem obeyed. Mycroft was doing something with his arm, probably rubbing it.

Lestrade suddenly felt guilty. “Sorry, I suppose he can be a bit rough.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a little roughness now and then.” Mycroft’s voice was softer than before. The spell must have been wearing off, because Lestrade noticed that the gentleman was looking down at the sleeve of his own robe. “You know, Gregory, there are many things a golem of _yours_ could do to me that I wouldn’t mind.”

Lestrade coughed, caught off guard by the rush of heat to his face.

“A being fashioned entirely from your will.” With reverence, Mycroft touched the large construct’s arm. “Your undead warriors are borrowed things, but this golem is only Gregory Lestrade. There will come a day when you will be attuned with your creation so intimately that it will be as much an instrument of your soul as your own body.” The touch turned into a long, lazy stroke. “When that day comes… I wonder if it will grab me again, and hold me for you?”

“God, Mycroft,” Lestrade huffed. His sight had completely returned, adjusted to the candlelight of the summoning chamber, and he couldn’t look away from the light caresses Mycroft was bestowing upon Lestrade’s golem. “He’s all yours, you know. For anything.” Overcome with bold affection, he smiled. “Just like I am.”

A brief instance of surprise seemed to flash over Mycroft’s features. A shy, pleased nod was given, and then he resumed his polite instruction. “Now, then, we were here to test your abilities, weren’t we? While maintaining control of your golem, raise two skeletal warriors, if you please.”

~~

Lestrade submitted his request to return to the homicide division, where he was sure he could do the most good. The people working against organised crime did good work, but it wasn't where Lestrade was at his best.

He almost couldn’t remember why he had switched away. He hadn’t thought he could do the job? He hadn’t believed in himself? All he had to do was think of the times he ventured with a well-dressed gentleman to a quiet graveyard and commanded an undead army to dance to provoke a startled laugh from that gentleman—which of the two feats was more incredible was hard to say—and then it would be evident to Lestrade that he could do anything.

Mycroft believed in him, after all. No more evidence was necessary than that.

Lestrade knew he could handle himself. He knew he could be a formidable enemy of evil in London. Most importantly, he knew that those who could not be saved were not lost forever. They would follow the sacred cycle that Lestrade had learned to revere.

Lestrade felt such pride in himself and for the one who had made him strong again.

When he left his office in Scotland Yard for the day, he only had to walk ten minutes to reach his home; it was in Pall Mall, right across from the Diogenes Club. The posh gentleman who owned the enormous flat had agreed to rent some of his rooms to the inspector. How could Lestrade refuse a situation so close to his work?

If anyone asked, it certainly wasn’t true that he slept in the same bed as that posh gentleman, nor that the two men smiled at each other, kissed each other, and rested by the fireplace, the gentleman wrapped in the arms of the inspector, finding a joy like no other in every whispered endearment and timorous blush.

Never mind that he felt his pulse start to race the closer he came to his home. It was a sensation that came from deep within himself, an energy that could not be explained and yet was entirely clear to the inspector.

He instinctively knew why he felt so suddenly warm at this moment, and the knowledge brought more infatuated heat to his chest. He quietly entered the flat and listened appreciatively to interesting noises coming from the bedroom.

“Gregory!” an elegant voice cried out. “Oh, my love!”

It was so overwhelming to hear his love cry out in passion that immediately Lestrade was affected, his heart feeling as if it were becoming too large, and his trousers too small. His legs started to carry him further into the flat at once, letting the rest of him become blithely occupied with fondness for his sweet Mycroft.

In the bedroom, he found Mycroft, naked and attractive, riding with a strained, guilty desperation on Lestrade’s clay golem. “Please,” Mycroft whimpered, so engaged with the large toy he was trying to relieve himself with that he did not notice Lestrade.

Mycroft was facing the golem's eyes, which glowed as hotly as Lestrade’s blood burned.

It never ceased to amaze Lestrade that this enchanting gentleman could need a commonplace inspector so badly—it was more than he could fathom, Mycroft being so taken with desire that he needed to satisfy himself on the instrument of Lestrade’s will.

“You’re so beautiful, Mycroft,” Lestrade murmured.

Mycroft froze, breathing hard. He shyly bent his head closer to the golem. “Gregory, I’m so sorry, I… I couldn’t…” Crestfallen, he started to shift his hips away.

Lestrade climbed onto the large bed, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, keeping the gentleman impaled on the golem. “Shh. It’s all right.”

Mycroft groaned helplessly.

“I didn’t mean to make you stop,” Lestrade whispered into Mycroft’s ear. He could feel Mycroft’s gentle spirit, an intoxicating and somehow deeply familiar presence.

“I shouldn’t… I wanted you terribly. It was more than I could bear. Why does it feel so good when you hold me?”

It was spectacular to be able to make this man happy. “I’d like to make you feel even better.” Some part of him longed too strongly for Mycroft, it seemed, because the golem started to make small, rhythmic motions with its hips.

Mycroft gasped, and his head tipped back, his eyes closed. “Yes, yes, anything, Gregory…”

“Tell me if I’m doing all right, love.” Lestrade ignored the insistent press in his own trousers long enough to fetch some items in the bureau by the side of the bed. There was already an opened bottle there, but Lestrade was more interested in something else that he knew Mycroft had been eyeing for a long time, that he had been promising to him.

He tenderly closed the handcuffs around Mycroft’s wrists. It was ridiculous to be able to do this with Mycroft, yet the gentleman seemed to enjoy it greatly, moaning a stirring, “yes, please,” even as he blushed with shame.

“Don’t be ashamed, Mycroft,” Lestrade reassured him warmly, knowing gratefully the soothing effect that any command he gave had on his love. “It’s all right to want these things. God, you don’t know how much I want you right now.”

“I need you,” the gentleman breathed. He was slowly bouncing, letting himself be led by the pace of Lestrade’s will.

Despite his urgency, Lestrade managed to get his trousers off himself, and covered himself with some of the lubricant, before he gently took Mycroft off the golem and turned the gentleman around, so that he might guide him to lie back on his construct, and see Mycroft’s lovely face as he was claimed by the inspector.

“Oh, yes!” Mycroft cried out, his arms trembling behind his back and his thighs shaking, parted and caressed by the golem’s strong hands. “Yes, oh, yes, Gregory…”

Lestrade was too smitten to do anything but please his beloved. “I love you, Mycroft,” he gasped between his own broken moans. The golem nuzzled a fair-skinned shoulder affectionately.

His beloved was very close, and it did not take much more of the rhythm that the inspector’s soul had started for Mycroft to cry out once more and give all that he had to Lestrade, who was finished quickly by the feel of his beloved’s happiness.

It was heaven to lie there with Mycroft. The inspector’s resolve strengthened ever further to protect this man. For so long, Lestrade had avoided his feelings for Mycroft, but if their love could be as golden as this, then maybe it was truly something to be cherished, not punished or squandered.

Mycroft clung lazily to the golem, his gaze fully upon Lestrade. “Your thoughts are exquisite, Gregory.”

“Ah, so you can read minds, too?”

“Only when you give your thoughts away so obviously—except, I suppose,” Mycroft said, in a subdued manner, “when they seem too lovely to be true.”

Lestrade understood very well how it felt to yearn for what seemed out of reach. “Mycroft, if it ever looked like I was thinking about how brilliant you are, believe me, I was.”

Mycroft smiled sheepishly. His head was resting on the golem’s leg, and his elegant hand was in Lestrade’s.

Dazzled by graceful, clever eyes, the inspector was certain of it now. There could be no doubt.

Joining a cult of necromancers was the greatest decision he ever made.

End~


End file.
